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Iets Waars

an Ongezellig adaptation

Zaryan

Pity the ink that cannot spare its wielder.

I wrote this for myself.

Preface (Preview Edition)

This work—novella, fanfic, chamber-piece, literary adaptation of an online web series—whatever it is of zoiets.

It doesn’t fit in any of them because that’s the spirit of what I’m adapting from because it is an exercise of sincerity.

You can read this cold, and I suggest that if you know nothing about Ongezellig yet somehow stumbled upon this, you should.

But—and hear me out on this one if you are a fan—my two cents as an Ongezellig fan, either the one belonging to the imageboard or mainstream half of the fandom, has this to say:

I had two premises in mind when it came to an Ongezellig adaptation:

What if the Bottle Smack in the Pilot had consequences?

How do I make a story out of it?

Here’s a glimpse of what that would look like.

Contents

0Doll Parts

0.5Long Gone Day

IMind Riot

0

Doll Parts

“—and I told that old hag, I said, ‘Mevrouw Casparij, with all due respect I have his toets right here in front of me, and what your son drew in the margins next to the essay question has nothing to do with the causes of Rampjaar,’ except she sits there and tells me he’s fine, that he’s ‘always been gevoelig, he was probably just being creatief,’ and here I’m thinking: I am the leerlingbegeleider, I have been doing this for twenty-three years, I know the difference between a boy being creative and a boy who draws his ideations next to a question about a man who was torn apart by a crowd and eaten—the module is already dark, and he still found a way to make it about something else entir—”

“You are not doing this in my kitchen.”

A glare toward her. Ponytail pulling back brunette curls that did not know it was arguing. Mole on her left cheek half-buried under a foundation line stopped at the jaw, a discrepancy between it and the skin below her neck. Green coat covering a black, skimp dress, belted at a waist having done considerable work over the years—work and stuff being indistinct at certain points in such an unflattering life—the belt itself either optimistic or defiant.

“Kijk me nou. I even went out of my way to stand in for my substitute because he was worried this was out of his area. You have to know the mother is a total idioot. What parent does not see signs this obvious?! Her poor son apparently loves listening to some artist called Negative XP and sooner or later he migh—”

“Loes, this is not America.”

Belt adjusted to a visually acceptable grip. Miniskirt revealing cellulites nobody needs to see. Ballerinas, while fitting for the autumn, not so much the soles.

“Dearest, relax. Prying ears are never present in my spaces. Nothing leaves any room I put myself in.”

“The problem is you do.”

The kitchen scanned. A vulture circling its prey. “Did you seriously not move anything?”

“Why would I move anything.”

“Sabbaticals, they make people awfully, awfully restless.”

“Then why even suggest that if I actually need rest.”

Loes pulls out concealer from the Prada.

“You should see my sons. They keep rummaging around the house during the weekends. They start rearranging! So I did my usual feng shui in my second bedroom and living room before I got here and I’ve only regretted it ever since because it will all be cluttered again.”

“Your sons might need a mother who knows how to handle them.”

“You might need sons, your womb is basically aching for them.”

“And be a worse mother than you already are.” She sips. “I happily appreciate declining the offer.”

Her concern is more so how her children would turn out at her age. She is not opposed to child-bearing and -rearing otherwise.

“Such is parenting, dearest. But you first need to get yourself a strong, preferably young man, Persijn.”

“I’d tell you to eat something but you’ve been stuffing yourself with it for as long as our tenures suggest, de Vos.”

A singular smack from the black cup.

“So much stress, dearest! Look at me, I got here via the Intercity! Can’t you imagine how awful the connection at Den Bosch is?! I’m still quite resilient in spite of it all.” Lip balm from the bag. Exuberant application before its return. “Consider a sabbatical. Like you said, we’re both tenured, you and I. You’d really need one, leraar such as you, especially what happened then.”

“This is not the best use of our time discussing this. It’s coincidental it was almost that long ago. Doesn’t mean I’m taking one.”

Secondary teachers in the Netherlands are disincentivised from taking sabbaticals.

“Well, at this point, you might need one. I mean look at your wrinkles!”

“You have more foundation than I have wrinkles.”

Voluptuous face padded with powder. At the bottom of the bookcase are the records, and the record player with the album case next to it.

“Still Soundgarden, dear?”

“What’s it to you.”

She blinks. Smiles. “Nothing! The 90s were my jam and my life. I love this album!” A lie. “I just didn’t think I’d still be seeing it at forty-eight.” She lays down her cup. “I’m so happy you’re taking consultations again. Before boarding, I told Smid, ‘Vera is opening the door again. She’s finally loosening up!’ He was very much pleased!”

“Would your pastoor be pleased about your current relations with him.”

“We had Confessions yesterday four-thirty. Then when it was supposedly his turn, the old crone told him he wasn’t even ‘baptised in the correct formula,’ whatever that means.”

The man is Unitarian-Universalist.

“Isn’t there a Jubilee thing going on with you papen.”

“I still have no idea what that is, but I insisted Smid he takes us for some pilgrimages. Our parish is Sint-Janskathedraal Den Bosch, so it was natural we went there first. Then we visited Sint-Nicolaaskerk two weeks ago. He kept ranting about how he’d go to hell if Catholicism was true, Communion wafers are cannibalism, and that we ‘worship’ the Blessed Virgin.”

“Three strikes, he knows his stuff.”

“Our pastoor was still considerate of him. Sweet old man. He was gentle with how he received my zoeteke.”

“I’m surprised he didn’t lash out or molest him.”

“You’re so hostile with such things, dearest, unlike Smid who, in spite of our religious differences, is all over me.”

“He has a lot to himself, then.”

Frame steps backward, the table shaking as an arm holds it and another is raised against a general, Vera-ish direction.

“You. Did. NOT.”

A singular snort from her.

Returned with a sigh. Another belt readjustment.

“You can see right now my sabbatical is obviously necessary.”

It is not baffling this woman can afford such compared to spending it this way.

“But you can only be oh, so careful for oh, so long! before the careful becomes its own problem.” She tilts her head. “How long has it been now?”

All this time, in her kitchen, all Vera has been doing is standing, mug in hand, observing her colleague’s goading.

“Six years, hè?” Gently. “You’ve handled it well. Right?”

“So you say.”

“Better than most would.” A pause. “Better than I would have.” Another lie.

“Not a high bar, Loes.”

The black cup examined.

“Well, you’re right. I suppose it isn’t.”

1

Mrs./Ms.: formal Dutch address for a woman

test or quiz (school assessment)

Year of Disaster: 1672, when France, England, and the German bishoprics of Münster and Cologne invaded the Dutch Republic

sensitive; emotional

creative

student welfare coordinator; school counselor

Just look at me: mild Dutch expression of exasperation. Variant ‘kijk nou!’ simply means ‘look!’

>>(You)

Catholic parish priest

papists: derogatory Dutch slang for Catholics

right? / eh?: Dutch conversational filler

0.5

Long Gone Day

The cup is refilled, another lone slurp taken from it.

“The new fourth-years are interesting. Different. They want everything explained. Everything! Pre-digested cereal by OpenAI!”

What a rancid image.

“What purpose do I have if I get substituted with language models?! With all of this AI stuff nowadays, teachers like you and I are, as the kids would say, ‘defunct.’” Loes holds her cup with diminishing propriety. “You aren’t concerned?”

“Mind your business, leerlingbegeleider.”

Vera despises AI. The hate is trendy, so she opts not to spout her opinions.

“Our beloved hoogleraar. He always said you were the one he couldn’t predict.” A blow to the coffee but does not not imbibe. “He meant it. You and I both know how older men are with younger women.”

“How he meant things is irrelevant here. And those older men are dead while we don’t get any younger.”

A look.

“Between you and I, sweetie, what he had and what you have right now is—well, ‘identical’ would be pushing it.”

“I’ve had one too many students.”

“One too many, dear.” Scanning the bookshelves, hiding a grin. “The ones you can’t predict: the best among the worst.”

“Is there a question somewhere in this.”

“Let me talk, sis,” A one-eighty. “Am I not allowed to just talk?”

“You can. That’s not what you’ve been doing.”

Whites of the teeth apparent. Someone whose beam has been caught doing exactly what was intended to be caught doing. “You look ravishing, by the way, my dear. Not every consultation has to be so formal, though. The boots are overkill!”

She has no response.

“You looked like that grumpy old man managing the museum at Dordrecht when I took the kids there.” Pacing towards the bookshelf, then back at the colleague. “I saw your shopping list, you should be grumpy.” The curls flow. The green swings. A motion. “But something’s different if you care this much. You’ve even been livelier than most mornings we’ve had.”

“It’s seven minutes to one.”

She is studied. “How’s your beauty sleep been?”

“How’s yours.”

“July, you were in 1672. Now,” arms wide, beholding an exhibit to an unenthusiastic crowd, “you’re here.” Therein comes a gaze seen when Loes is in the guidance office actually doing her job, a swallow in its nest.

“What’s happened to you?”

“Nothing you don’t already know.”

“Mhm.” The smile, wide as the waist. “The channel.” With a tease. “I WhatsApp’d you Thursday after Mari made me watch and those glasses were unmistakable! Did you see it?”

She looks down from her window.

“Well?”

“It’s competent.”

This is considered. “I thought it was quite good. That other woman kept blabbering how he was ‘one of Persijn’s’ and that he was ‘doing great for himself.’” Concealer in Prada. “Besides proudly pointing out he has seen the Symbolica that many times—seriously, how could someone not get sick of—” The foundation mirror is dropped.

Grimacing.

“Sorry, my dear, but the postwar argument he proposed sounds like something close to what someone I know would raise.” Mirror in hand. “He must have had good teachers.”

“He’s had several teachers. I just happened to be one of them. In passing.”

“You call four years fleeting? Anyway he was very bright. With all of the—” A stop. Tilts the head. “Then the incursion.”

“The situation called for nothing less but the use of blunt force.”

“It surprised me the board was willing to slap you on the wrist for that.”

“You could have just handled her.”

“Her foster parents are not terrible. Still, if Soei can’t control her own brat, who am I to?”

She closes her eyes. “A referral to the administrator could have.”

“Using her own weapon against her should have been the move.” Padding on face. “Not being vindictive cost you.”

“I granted her clemency. And look what that got me.” Her eyelids rise.

“Preach, sister! You had a heart of gold, I mean, not just her, all three of them: herkansingen! I would have handed them expulsions had I been in your boots. But you were so fair, fair even to the last. I admired it.”

“Would’ve been better if you hadn’t.”

“Okay. I found it slightly… what’s the word?” Chin padded six times as it is said: “Incomprehensible.” The coffee in the black cup, just there, hardly pecked. “It was just one happy incident. You are too fair if you ask me. Whether or not they were fair to you after is tea for another time.”

“We’ve had this same tea throughout the years.”

Vera is as perplexed as she is annoyed. Loes is just as perplexing as she is annoying.

“Well, have you been in touch since then?”

Her mug caught in time. A recalibration.

“He sent a message. A research consultation.” She hears herself.

“Een consultatie.” Her eyes widen. “Wait, he’s the client?”

“People come to the books. Look around you.”

“Right. Even though you haven’t taken any since—” Vera’s eyes, held. “And you said yes.”

“Shut up.”

Standing, smoothing her folds, nudging her colleague.

“Slayyyy!”

She shoves.

“No wonder the energy! You shouldn’t have to avoid former students because of what happened. That would be, like you keep telling me all these years, ‘letting her win.’” Said by someone who has convincingly thought about Vera’s life on her behalf. “When?”

“Today.”

“Here?”

“Does that mouth ever shut up.” Her teeth grit, wrinkles downward.

“Make me, dear.” Bag is picked up. “You have to admit, this consultatie is a step-up from grading Thirty Years’ War essays at sixes and sevens.”

“They’re satisfactory.”

“Satisfaction is mediocrity, dearest.” To the counter, black cup in the sink.

“That better be something you tell the students who end up in your office so I don’t have to mark it on their papers.”

The woman in green gives Vera a chuckle as consolation.

“You know,” hand still on the sink, “the old man always exclaimed you’d be the one who didn’t know when to stop. Especially if you were in the room. The way you go past comfortable, past where anyone else would leave it.” Turning. “It’s a quality.”

“Do you insist on calling it that.”

“In the right context.” Handbag onto the shoulder. “Just, be careful. Not because of the history. You’re worth being careful about.” A stare succeeded by a smirk, returned with what could only be described as fury beneath eyes having seen more than enough.

Tapping the mirror on her shoulder:

“It has three-hundred subs, Vera.”

“It’s much more than—.”

A jovial breath. “How couldn’t you know?” Toward the door, coffee almost to the brim left behind, Prada bidding farewell. “Anyway. Call me after. I want to hear how it goes. How it all goes. All of it!”

“Tieft de tempel uit, Loes.”

“Aah, ‘k zat maar een beetje te stoken, hè.”

Glancing toward the window.

“The sky is threatening my mascara. I do have to go, my dear.” Padding the face one more time. “I called him to pick me up this time around.”

The urge to quip weighs on Vera. She doesn’t offload it.

At the doorway, the woman turns toward her colleague one last time. Grabbing the handbag in a farewell manner, “These weekends are why you’re worth the visit.”

“Charmed. I already told you to leave.”

“Don’t be such a grouch, Persijn. I’m happy for you. Too happy, I might add. I won’t be able to contain myself!” A kiss on her left once and goes. A nextdoor gesture.

The sound of Loes de Vos in the hallway, footsteps echoing toward the lift. Unhurried, the tread of someone who has nowhere to be except not here. The noon sky slate waits for no one.

It has been one o’clock for six minutes. The two mugs are taken to the sink to rinse cold. She pours out the guest’s mug, puts the moka pot back on the stove. The cups on the counter. One of them smiles back.

Of course the hog did not bother to close the door.

2

professor (university rank): used here as fondness for their late mentor

a ride from the Efteling theme park in Kaatsheuvel, NL. A trackless dark ride which opened July 1, 2017, it is known for featuring three distinct routes each with unique scenes that can only be experienced if one takes the main queue.

a consultation, ‘een’ being the indefinite article / determiner

lit. ‘get out of the temple’: crude Rotterdam dismissal, based on the biblical account of Jesus’ cleansing of the Temple. Roughly “get the hell out” or the more loaded “fuck off”

I

Mind Riot

Amsterdam in October has the light of a city deciding to be beautiful for once before calling it a day.

It arrives at an angle, through moderately tall windows, through ingenious engineering defiantly embracing the ever-engulfing waters, and in Vera Persijn’s kitchen on the Omval it falls across the stack of unmarked essays on her table: Vierde Klas, Chapter 13, The Thirty Years’ War, Its Continental Economic Devastation, and the Buildup to Rampjaar, and makes them look, for approximately four minutes, compelling.

Unsatisfactory.

She has read a third of the essays before her guest walked in for their bi-weekly weekend coffee. No grades are given yet as the red pen sits on top of them, but these are not deserving V’s. One of them had the audacity to claim that de Ruyter was just an ‘okay admiral.’ Had Loes not barged in, nothing in her day could have topped off such unpleasance.

Hob stove on. Hot water tap, out of order.

The laptop lies beside the essays. YouTube on autoplay. Paused. A bearded man with glasses. Face suspended ranting about the structural integrity of the Joris en de Draak.

The Omval is not her home. Rotterdam is a very efficient place. However, she would rather be as far as possible from the jaws of productivity such a city impresses. She is also not fond of its reconstruction, nor could she escape it. The Amstel a walk away is unlike the hipster canals found in the Jordaan. It is a river wide, grey and indifferent.

She has not poured from the moka pot slowly boiling for over seven minutes. An heirloom from her father. A drip pot sees through what the moka hides. The preference is essential.

Her mug, newly rinsed: the Nevermind Smiley, the lopsided face Cobain scratched out himself. Fisher and Jacobs claim otherwise. Vera knows he wanted the tongue drawn originally upward.

Rotterdam, 1991, the week the album came out. Thirteen she was. The mug. Not that mug. The original broke in spring break 2020. By the time the replacement arrived, only then did she clean up after the pieces. She has been calling it by the same name for five years. Same smiley, same size.

She is forty-eight and she is not going to call it waiting.

She agreed. She said fine, Saturday the 18th, 2pm, don’t be late and the tenure protects her formally. Formally is the kind of touching that strikes a nerve, and the buzzer will sound in forty-three minutes. The decision was made before the text, before Thursday, before Loes’ probing, and she is not going to unmake it now.

She has been living with the decision for longer than she can precisely date. She dates everything. She cannot date this.

The laptop turns off and is put away.

The October light on the Omval. The metro lines outside her apartment hum to and fro. She grabs the pot, pours over the mug, sets it down. The coffee is still scalding hot but the pouring itself requires a decision. She is spent, and the caffeine affirms her.

The almost is what has required six years. Not the word. The word was wrong, the investigation was thorough, by now twenty-five years of unassailable service and by then they had found nothing. There was nothing to find but the almost. A weapon approximately accurate is the most damaging kind. You cannot entirely dismiss it, because somewhere underneath the wrongness is the thing it got close to naming. She has been standing at the edge of almost for six years, looking into it, itself looking back.

Kanker.

The buzzer rings.

She does not call it six years.

She heads for the record player, places the vinyl, and props the needle. Let Me Drown starts humming. Music has always soothed Vera. The disordered beauty of her genres are the kind of calm acquired only after oneself has gone through the whirlwind of life, and she has plenty of howling gust to blow away anyone, anything in the way.

Hmm-mmm.

Slouching by the door with now-lukewarm coffee, reached by the October light, the decision is found. There. Correct. Immutable. Underneath the correctness is something having been in this kitchen since the afternoon began, an elephant not worth the address.

The intercom substation waits by the entrance, mounted close to the frame. She puts on her coat and scarf.

3

Fourth Year of secondary school (middelbare) — standard designation for all school year levels in the Dutch system. In order, they are: Brugklas (the ‘bridge’ year); Tweede; Derde; Vierde; Viefde; Zesde

lit. “cancer” — used here as a harsh Dutch expletive

Sneak Peak.

More to come.